MURDER IN THE CATHEDRAL

St John the Divine Church

★★★★★

“Deeply atmospheric and moving, this is an unmissable production”

I’ve always thought that staging T.S. Eliot’s drama, “Murder in the Cathedral”, could be a thankless task. Set in 1170, and written in 1935 with elements of Greek tragedy, medieval theology and poetic verse, the prospect of it appealing to a modern audience are a touch on the slim side. Add to this the decision to present it in the cavernous, hallowed and hollow nave of a church, the wooden pews of which require stamina and self-sacrifice to sit in for two-and-a-half hours. However, Tom Littler’s production for the Orange Tree Theatre, starring David Suchet as Archbishop Thomas Becket, gets everything right in this compelling and dramatic retelling of the story, which is both ancient and modern at the same time. Eliot was undoubtedly influenced by what was happening across Europe in the 1930s when he wrote the piece, and much of the unease that echoed around people’s consciousness is pertinent in the 2020s.

But let’s cast the socio-political rhetoric aside and just wallow in the sheer atmosphere of the story that unfolds inside Richmond’s St John the Divine Church. It is 1170 and Britain is divided. Archbishop Thomas Becket and King Henry II have become mortal adversaries. After seven years of exile in France, Becket returns to Canterbury, sealing the King’s wrath – and his own fate. The cathedral is no safe haven, particularly when a quartet of the King’s knights are on a deadly mission to assassinate. The overlapping themes of religion, spirituality, political authority, faith, doubt, temptation, morality and martyrdom are all made crystal clear. They could end up in a muddled mess, just as the acoustics of the church could be an echoey disarrangement, but Max Pappenheim’s sound design miraculously accentuates every word; spoken, chanted or sung.

The mood is foreboding, tinged with excitement. Peter Mumford’s evocative lighting bathes the church in deep hazes, punctuated by blood-red flashes in time to an orchestral bass drum. The central aisle is a catwalk, along which many of the characters make their entrance. We begin with the chorus, led by Sally Cheng, Rebecca Thorn, Mila Carter and Chyna-Rose Frederick; supplemented by members of the Orange Tree Community Ensemble. They set the scene as uncertain harbingers of tragedy, their words softened by composer Orlando Gough’s spectral harmonies that heighten Eliot’s verse. Paving the way for the three priests’ (Michael Lyle, Paul Hickey and Mensah Bediako) own misgivings, they are destined to reappear at crucial moments of the narrative; sometimes like sirens, at other times dervishes or lost souls being dragged into the River Styx.

Central to the performance is David Suchet’s unassumingly outstanding Becket. A voice rich in tone and in defiance, he rarely has to raise his voice to reveal his soul. He greets his tempters with a mocking rebellion, despite their dramatic entrances through a neon lit portal. Jyuddah Jaymes, Ben Caplan, Nick Sampson and David Yelland make up the quartet, each in turn rejected as they try to tempt Becket. The stillness of Suchet’s defiance is his strength, which he carries to the pulpit to deliver a pitch-perfect sermon (if the acting ever dries up, an alternative career in the clergy lies in wait for Suchet).

It is a play of contradictions. Of doing the right thing for the wrong reasons. Of rejoicing and mourning, in a world where ‘peace’ has conflicting meanings, most of which are interpreted wrongly. Suchet invests real pathos into Becket’s questioning of whether the angels are mistaken, yet his faith never wavers. Littler’s direction of the piece doesn’t shy away from this inner conflict, and with the aid of Cat Fuller’s costume choices, brings the play’s archaic themes bang up to date. The four knights (unrecognisable from their roles as the tempters), in black leather and trench coats, are modern day gangsters – henchmen under orders from the King. As they present their case to the audience they use a handheld microphone. The tone lightens, but the humour remains dark. In a similar vein, Jad Sayegh’s Messenger is a flat-capped, wide-boy Eastender; an anachronism that perversely refuses to be out of place.

As the knights exit, having pledged their appeals, we are once again alone with the chorus. The beauty of each individual voice haunting and taunting us. The beauty of the singing is achingly juxtaposed with the tragedy of the events. They become one rousing voice before a sad and graceful diminuendo as they wander into the candlelit sanctuary, then disappear. The church falls silent. But only for a split second before the applause. Deeply atmospheric and moving, this is an unmissable production – spearheaded by Suchet’s mesmerising performance – that follows you long into the night.